At 19, I lost one of the closest people in my life, my dad Mick. He lit up every room he walked into. His energy, his love of people, of sport, of life, that’s what I try to carry with me every day. By the time he was diagnosed with oesophageal cancer, it was already too late. He passed away just two weeks later.

In the past, during many of my long runs, when shit gets hard, I feel his strength and presence. Losing him shaped my ability to endure, mentally more than anything – no physical pain comes close to that kind of loss.

On 25th-26th July 2026 I ran 100 miles (160km) to raise awareness and funds so that fewer people hear that news too late. Oesophageal cancer is a cancer that often goes unnoticed until it’s advanced, and that needs to change.

As I sit here, with tears in my eyes, flying back from Scotland, three days on from the race, I finally feel like I can somewhat start to describe how the past week has felt. The night before the race I went inwards. Inwards to a place I have barely ever felt the strength to be able to reach over the past 7 years. A place where the pain is so immense, I can’t even begin to describe it. The only way I’ve ever been able to, is by the heavy, sinking feeling in my chest that I feel, whenever I let myself go back to that time. It’s the same feeling I felt as I watched him pass, in front of me, the young girl that wanted nothing more than to have her best mate by her side as she entered adulthood. The one that was supposed to continue being there when her car broke down, to go to when she needed financial advice or when uni was stressing the shit out of her, when she needed live feedback court-side at her netball games, when she just needed the biggest bear hug ever to remember that nothing is ever that deep – that every day above ground is a good one.

The loss of the future was something she grieved the most. He was the one that was supposed to walk her down the isle, be a grandad to her future kids, play golf with after giving her a million lessons, to pub crawl with when he visited her in her new home in London – or drink all the Speight’s beer she promised to always have fully stocked in a beer fridge in her future house. I wanted to go back to those two weeks between diagnosis and his passing, because to me, knowing that no pain could come close to losing a loved one, was something I felt I needed a fresh reminder of. I knew the race would be hard. I knew it would be painful in all the ways. BUT, I knew it would be nothing in comparison to this pain that I knew all too well. So, it may sound weird to a lot of people, but yes this race was physically hard, but mentally I felt so strong. Not once did I think I wouldn’t finish. I’m not too sure where I am going with this. There is so much I could say about the event (including the INCREDIBLE amount of support I received, both on the day and the lead up) and I am sure I will over the next wee while – I feel so loved and supported.

I think the point of this message is that loss is inevitable. It’s a part of life. It’s how you channel that hurt and that love that you have for that person that matters. I am so beyond grateful for the nineteen years I was able to have with my dad and that’s what I hold on to. Every day above ground is a good one folks – make the bloody most of it, whatever that looks like to you 🧡